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Chapter 172 : Snapshot
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by Miss Lily Potter
He wasn’t brave, he wasn’t loyal. All he could do was take pictures.
Curses flew around him, and he ducked and dodged. It was becoming a frenzy. Gotta take pictures, preserve this day. Now.
He was slowly going crazy, or something like it, but he pushed this to the back of his mind, his feet hitting the stone floor, one after another. Methodically.
He saw faces of the dead—the hideously, horrifically dead—staring at him whenever he glanced at he ground, so he didn’t look at the ground.
He looked up, and to the sides, and he saw curses but they didn’t hit him, and he almost wished they would but that was a lie.
He had never wanted to live as much as he did now. He had never felt this need to survive, to go on to the next day, and in that moment, Colin Creevey knew what fear really was.
It wasn’t Professor Snape, or Draco Malfoy, or any of the bullies from over the years—it was death, and not being alive, and never seeing his family again.
Had he told Dennis he loved him?
He couldn’t remember; he’d told him to be safe, but had he told his own brother how much he meant?
Colin closed his eyes, and the camera began to slip from his fingers. No! It had become a sort of need, for him to take pictures, to photograph this moment, these precious few moments.
He could die, but he needed to leave his mark on the world.
He grappled for the strap of the camera, praying, hoping, cursing under his breath, and he grabbed it, sighing in relief.
He could die, so long as these pictures were found.
Sighing in relief, he continued his journey, and then it—the reality of the war—sunk in, and he was running, breathing heavily and pushing his legs as fast as they could go.
He heard curses thrown by both sides, and more than once, he had to dodge a jet of light, but he was quickly forgotten—just another Hogwarts kid, just another spare.
And the thought of that, being cast aside like that, made rage bubble up inside him and he let loose a shriek, running faster than he ever had, his camera forgotten, bouncing around his neck. He grabbed his wand, and started shooting curses at the people that looked bad, shouting everything his mind could come up with.
People fell, good and bad.
Colin Creevey made some of them fall.
He felt a kind of vindictive pleasure at this; I’m not just a spare.
He was smiling, hiding in an alcove, and his heart was beating so, so fast.
He didn’t hear the words, the quiet murmur of a curse, until it was directly behind his ear.
He turned around, shocked, just as the last “vra” was uttered, and he barely had time to register this before the green jet was shooting at him, and he was falling backwards, eyes forever open in a look of horror.
His attacker “tsk”ed, picked up the camera, and took one last snapshot of Colin Creevey’s face.
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